


Enjolras's Reason For Surrender

by ejr



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 08:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13655535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ejr/pseuds/ejr
Summary: What if the barricade happened a little differently? What if Enjolras saw in time what Grantaire was willing to give?---My own hand crafted version of the rebellion.





	Enjolras's Reason For Surrender

 

The barricade, to say the least, was absolute chaos. Any control Enjolras thought he might of held had been violently stripped from his bare hands as soon as the men around him erupted into battle cries, enough guns going off to make the air taste like the smoke of gunpowder. His friends scrambled around up and down the wall of broken furniture as bullets rained down on them, courtesy of the National Guard.

Enjolras was only terrified for a very brief second.

After that, it was autopilot, acting on instinct alone to lead his faithful friends into what he hoped would be their first success. They fought with their all and nothing less, their anger ringing around the small town square as clear as church bells.

It was not their first victory. It was their first loss. Night fell and the echoing gunshots quieted, blanketed into silence by the darkness of the night. The National Guard withdrew for the time being.

Enjolras took this time to begin taking stock of his men on the barricade, his weapons, his ammunition. A few bullet wounds and scrapes here and there, but nothing fatal. Poor Joly had blood on his face and was doing his best to hold still as little Gavroche wiped it off with a handkerchief.

This is what he liked seeing in his ragtag group of friends. Friendship and comradery. A bond that would allow them to fight _together_. Enjolras was feeling better about their first loss, it seemed they hadn't actually lost much. That is, until he saw Eponine.

Eponine was dead.

Enjolras saw her body, lying far too still, far too lifeless; Marius curved over her, his hands stained deep scarlet, his flushed face wet with tears. They looked like they had slid down the barricade to rest at the foot of it. No one dared bother Marius. Enjolras could see his friends, waiting just out of Marius’s sight, looking to Enjolras for what to do.

So Enjolras took charge.

“Marius.” He says softly, kneeling beside him. He doesn't dare touch him or Eponine. “Marius, are you injured?”

Marius is still stooped over Eponine as if he were cradling a sleeping child. His face is mostly hidden, so Enjolras can only see a sliver of his tear stained cheek as he shakes his head. “Eponine- she-” Marius chokes out a broken sob. “She saved me, she _died_ for me. E-Enjolras, I don't know what to do.” He turns now, looking to Enjolras for guidance. “If I- if I hadn't been so reckless maybe she c-could still be alive.” Enjolras shakes his head.

“Eponine was a big girl. She knew what she was doing.” Enjolras murmurs. “Her death won't be in vain, Marius.”

“I-I told her I would stay with her. Until she...I won't ever get her back.” Marius’s blood stained hands curl tighter around Eponine’s torso.

“No.” Enjolras says quietly. “You won't.”

Tears slip down Marius’s face again, hot and plentiful. Enjolras lets him cry until his breath becomes laboured and weak.

“Marius, come inside.” Enjolras says, when the worst had passed, extending his hand to Marius. The freckled boy didn't move. “We won't leave her out here, okay?”

Marius looks up at Enjolras once more. His grief stricken face was blotchy red and puffy. His eyes were dark and vacant.

“Come on, let's get you a drink.” Enjolras extends his hand a little bit farther.

Marius nods slowly. He puts his hand in Enjolras’s. His leader ignores the blood now on his hands as they carefully stand.

“That's it. Come on, Marius. Drinks on me.” Marius nods but Enjolras knows he isn't really hearing what he's saying. He turns to the men lingering out of sight. “Bring her body upstairs. Cover her with a sheet. Please be careful.” Enjolras says. The men nod solemnly, more shaken by the death of an innocent than Enjolras is.

Enjolras half leads, half carries Marius into the cafe Musain. He sets him down in a chair next to Courfeyrac, who is nursing a wounded hand.

“Marius.” Enjolras says firmly. Marius is staring at the table, not really seeing it.“Why don't you see if you can wash off your hands and tend to Courfeyrac’s injury?”

Marius’s thousand yard stare snaps and he looks at Enjolras again like a lost child.

“You're a smart man. Take care of Courfeyrac’s injury.” Enjolras says again. He lets a little bit of his authority seep into his voice if only to shake Marius from his stupor. Enjolras doesn't think Courfeyrac knows Eponine is dead, but he can see it as he catches on to what Enjolras is trying to do.

“It's just a burn.” Courfeyrac says to Marius. He stretches hand out. “See? My gun misfired and burned my hand.”

Marius looks at his hand. “Oh,” he says.

“Doesn't hurt much, just stings a little. I will need help with a new wrapping though.” Courfeyrac says, slow enough that each word is clear and pointed enough to earn Marius’s attention.

“O-okay.” Marius leans forward to further inspect the injury. Enjolras catches Courfeyrac’s eye, nodding appreciatively as Courfeyrac silently agrees to take care of Marius.

Enjolras leaves Marius at the table, eyes scanning the inside of the Cafe. It seemed everyone was in pairs, drinking away the stress of their first fight or tending to wounds. They had all fought bravely, but the National Guard had more men and more weapons. The carnage was sprinkled over Enjolras’s forces like rain.

However, now that he's not focused on Marius anymore, Enjolras can hear Grantaire's deep voice cursing up a storm. Instinctively he frowns. Hadn't he told Grantaire to leave this place if he planned to be drunk- which he always was? It was easy to follow the sound of his voice to the far corner of the cafe, where Combeferre was holding firmly Grantaire by the elbow as he dug a pointed tool into the flesh of his bicep. On the table was a roll of bandages and a bottle of whiskey next to a shallow dish of water.

“Fuck, god, ‘Ferre, my arm-”

“Sit still.” Combeferre says.

“It _hurts_.” Grantaire groans. “Really, Combeferre, I'm fine, it didn't hurt until you started poking it-”

“Sit still! Don't you understand that as soon as you decided you were willing to get shot in order to help us, you signed yourself up for receiving our help for your injuries?” Combeferre says, brows furrowed as he tries to concentrate. Grantaire’s mouth shuts with a snap. “Now don't move. I have to get the bullet out. The sooner the better.” Grantaire’s normally alcohol-flushed face was drawn tight and pale.

“What's going on?” Enjolras asks, walking up to the pair.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire face clears and he calls out happily as if his shirt sleeve wasn't soaked in his own blood. “I was just about to see where you were. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” Enjolras says plainly. Grantaire’s face twitches minutely around his forced grin as Combeferre continues prodding his gunshot wound. Grantaire’s hand clenches into a tight fist on the table between them but his face remains carefully neutral. “Are you?”

“Fine.” Grantaire says. “No chip on my shoulder.” Grantaire's eyes pinch shut for a brief second as he turns to look at Combeferre. “‘Ferre, I swear you're doing it on purpose.”

“I'm not.” Combeferre says. “It’s hiding from me.”

“Well, find it.” Grantaire says.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. He's had enough of Grantaire already. He turns to leave but is caught by a quick grasp onto his hand.

“Wait, don't go.” Grantaire begs. He tugs a little harder on Enjolras’s hand, but then pulls it away, looking at the red on his hand. “Blood?” He says, looking up at Enjolras with a panicked expression. “Is it yours?”

“No.” Enjolras says. “It’s Eponine’s. She was shot and killed.” He says quietly. Combeferre pauses and pulls away from his motions at Grantaire's arm with a sorrowful expression. Enjolras watches Grantaire as his face becomes more dismayed the longer he stares at the blood smeared on his fingers. He faintly remembers that while he's known Eponine for a while, Grantaire has known Eponine for much longer, and they had been much closer friends.

“Don't leave, Enjolras, please.” Grantaire requests again. His bloodied hand closes into a loose grasp. “Please.”

“I have to check on the others.” Enjolras says.

“Don't! Don't go, Enjolras, please, I need to know you're safe-”

“I'm fine.” Enjolras snaps. “Worry about yourself.” He turns to walk away again but Grantaire is scrambling behind him to reach out once more.

“No, Enjolras, please- _shit_!” Grantaire cries out in pain and falls heavily back into his chair. Enjolras turns around in surprise at the unfamiliar noise. Grantaire is sweating and Combeferre looks angrier than ever, his eyes livid behind his glasses. He had grabbed Grantaire by the leg to keep him from darting up to reach Enjolras and as such, aggravated a hidden wound.

“You told me this wasn't your own blood.” Combeferre growls.

“I lied.” Grantaire weakly says through gritted teeth.

“Any other wounds you'd like to declare?” Combeferre says. His mouth is drawn into a straight line. Grantaire just stares at him, chest rising shallowly.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre commands. He doesn't break eye contact with Grantaire. “Sit down. Doctor’s orders.”

Enjolras hesitates for a second. Both men at the table turn and fix him with a look- Combeferre demanding and Grantaire pleading. Enjolras sits down at the table, next to Grantaire.

“Now, R, please hold still.” Combeferre says, his voice softer than before.

“Yes sir.” Grantaire says tiredly. He sags, defeated, into his chair. When Combeferre goes digging for the bullet again, the only sign of it in Grantaire’s form is the tight fist he clenches on top of the table.

It only takes a moment longer before Combeferre is able to place the tiny round bullet on the table. It shines a glossy red.

“You'll need to get this checked out by a doctor.” Combeferre says as he reaches out for the roll of bandages.

“You are a doctor.”

“A _certified_ doctor, Grantaire.”

“Can't afford it.” Grantaire murmurs.

“Write the bill in my name.” Combeferre says. He begins to gently wrap Grantaire's bicep in tight layers of the bandage. He ties it off with a firm knot. “Let me see the other one.” Combeferre asks, gesturing towards Grantaire's thigh. “What happened? There's so much blood, Grantaire.”

Grantaire chuckles, but the amusement doesn't reach his eyes. “Bayonet caught me.” Combeferre grimaces as he leans forward to survey the injury best he can.

“It doesn’t look incredibly deep, but if you successfully hid this from me, you would have eventually bled out. Do you understand?”

Grantaire nods, his face pinched tight.

“I’m going to have to clean the wound and wrap it up. Alright?” Combeferre says, his Doctor Voice doing its magic to keep Granatire calm and aware of what’s happening. When Grantaire nods, Combeferre begins to gently peel away the fabric of Grantaire's pants away from the wound. Enjolras watches Combeferre’s deft fingers work carefully. The blood has matted the fabric of Grantaire’s pants to his skin, and it’s stuck in the wound, stopping it from even scabbing over properly.

Grantaire is shaking, Enjolras sees, dealing with the pain as quietly as he can. His jaw is clenched but he doesn't make a sound. The adrenaline must be fading from his system, leaving only pain and discomfort, and a sharp awareness of exactly what’s happening to his aggravated wound. Enjolras feels a pang of pity for Grantaire. Were it any other comrade, any other friend, Enjolras would have provided words of comfort, perhaps a soothing touch.

That’s a flawed logic, Enjolras realizes. Grantaire had gotten hurt _at the barricades_ , doesn’t that qualify him for Enjolras’s sympathy?

Enjolras stretches his hand out on the table and offers it to Grantaire, palm up. Grantaire takes a moment to notice it at all, his eyes hazy, but when he does he’s quick to grasp it tightly. Enjolras squeezes back. There’s still blood on both of their hands, but it doesn’t matter.

“It’s safe to say these pants won’t be able to be worn any longer.” Combeferre murmurs. “Permission to cut this pant leg up?”  
“Granted.” Grantaire grunts. He shifts slightly, allowing Combeferre to grab his knife out of his pocket and make quick work of the tattered pant leg. He cuts a long slit where he needs to bandage. “The police shall arrest me for public indecency, Combeferre.” Grantaire jokes weakly. “And when I tell them that it was you that cut my pants, they shall arrest me for being a homosexual.” Combeferre snorts, shaking his head.

“I’m sure there’s a pair somewhere around here you can wear. Do not worry, they won’t catch you just yet.” Gone is the knife, and Combeferre gently peels the fabric from Grantaire’s leg. Although Combeferre has said the wound was relatively shallow, it’s hard to pick out the wound from the blood-covered skin of Grantaire’s thigh. A cloth appears in Combeferre’s hand, wet from the dish of water on the table, and he gently cleans it. Even at such a young age, still just a student, Combeferre is efficient in his work.

He softly shushes Grantaire when he groans in pain as his careful ministrations edge nearer to his cut. “Just a moment longer. You’re doing so well, Grantaire.”

Grantaire exhales sharply. “Is is weak of me to ask for distraction, oh great leader?” Grantaire cuts his gaze away from his wound and over to Enjolras.  
“I suppose not.”

“Then tell me, am I the most wounded?” Grantaire’s pale skin shines in a faint sweat, but he smiles as if he’s not in pain. Enjolras finds that courage admirable.

“Besides Eponine, yes, you are the one with the most grievous wounds.” Grantaire nods, seemingly satisfied that no one suffered worse injury than him.

“Poor ‘Ponine.” Grantaire drops his head. “She really did care for Marius, and for us.” He looks up again, his eyes glistening and just short of anger. “Do not take her sacrifice lightly, Enjolras.”

Taken aback, Enjolras blinks. “I did not say she sacrificed anything.” Combeferre is finished cleaning the wound and he sits back. He glares at Enjolras a moment, a sharp warning that Enjolras doesn’t understand.

“Eponine would only let herself die here if it were a sacrifice.” Grantaire says bluntly as Combeferre unravels the rest of the bandages. “A sacrifice, perhaps, for our dear Pontmercy.”

Enjolras stays silent, only mildly surprised that Grantaire was able to guess right.

“Pontmercy, is he okay?” Grantaire frowns. “Marius hasn’t seen many hardships in his short life. I worry that her death may shake him.”

“Do not patronize him, he is not a child.” Enjolras says. “I bet he has seen more than you in his years.”

Grantaire’s face flickers into a hurt expression and then quickly falls flat. “I am the eldest of your rag tag group, Enjolras. Do not underestimate me or my hardships.” Enjolras feels Grantaire’s tight grip around his fingers slacken and he watches as Grantaire pulls his hand back only to clench it into a tight fist on the edge of the table. “I merely was worried about Marius. He is my friend just as much as yours.”

“Grantaire.” Combeferre says soothingly. “Don’t take his words to heart.” Grantaire looks at the doctor through his eyelashes, having a wordless conversation with him. Combeferre sighs. “Let me wrap your leg, and then you can rest.”

“Yes sir.” As Combeferre wraps his wound tightly, Grantaire doesn’t say another word. A neat knot finishes the temporary repairs, and Combeferre sits back. “That’s all for now.” He affectionately pats Grantaire on the head, ruffling his hair a bit. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay? Just try to sleep if you can.” Grantaire nods, and then leans back in his chair and rests his head against the wall. He closes his eyes.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre says, as he washes his hands off in the water dish and tidies the mess of things on the table. “Come with me upstairs.”

Enjolras knows he’s done something wrong by the clipped tone to Combeferre normally friendly voice. He follows Combeferre up the stairs to the second floor, where only a few tables remain, and the shutters to the windows are shut tightly.

“Grantaire, he gives more than you see. That man,” Combeferre says, turning to face Enjolras. “Would _die_ for you.” He reaches his hand out and presses a small object into Enjolras’s palm. It’s the bullet from Grantaire’s arm, small and round and cleaned from his blood. “You mustn’t take him so lightly, every wound he sustained today was meant for you.”

“What?”

“As you climbed that barricade, Enjolras, he did too. He saved your life.” Enjolras closes his hand around the bullet. “Just as Eponine made her sacrifice, he made his, and if you _dare_ disrespect him like that again, I will not be so nice.”

“I didn’t mean to-”  
“You said to the man who had been shot _for you_ that his hardships did not compare to Marius’s. Don’t lie to yourself, Marius has lead a cushioned life, and while that does not excuse or make any of his hardships lesser, you _know_ Grantaire has had worse!” Combeferre practically shouts. “He doesn’t want to be here but he stayed because he knew you would be reckless.”   
“I do not need saving, Combeferre, from him or anyone else.” Enjolras snaps.

“Yes you do. This is a dangerous game you play, Enjolras. Please realize that before you actually let any more of your friends- _our_ friends- slip between your fingers.” Combeferre holds his sharp stare for a heart wrenchingly long moment. He shakes his head and steps back. With loud footsteps, Combeferre descends the stairs, leaving Enjolras alone.

In the corner of the room lays Eponine, covered in a sheet.

 

The next morning, Enjolras is unsure. He’s never been unsure, always quick to the draw, always confident in his abilities to problem solve, and this newfound wariness embeds itself in Enjolras’s bones. Combeferre had lodged this seed of doubt in him and it only grows as he surveys his men, weary and scared.

He doesn’t comment as Grantaire watches him from the side of the room as he walks through. Grantaire has a bottle clasped in his hand but doesn’t lift it to drink. Enjolras can feel the gaze weighing on him.

Combeferre bids Enjolras good morning. “A few men have left in the night.” He says as Enjolras sits next to him at the table.  
Enjolras sighs. “They are free to do what they wish.”   
“Well, they wished to leave.” Combeferre mutters. “Marius should be coming back soon, I sent him out to check on the other barricades.”

“Good work.” Enjolras says. Even though Combeferre’s inclination to support the revolution- or at least this particular aspect of it- was clearly waning, Enjorlas feels pleased at his continuance in carrying out his job as Enjolras’s right hand man. Loyal to the end. “How is everyone else?”

“Rough, but still together. I don’t know how much longer we can do this, Enjolras.”

“We can do it. Don't give up hope.” But his words weren't as confident as they were yesterday. “We are the voice of the people.” Enjolras says, firmer this time.

Marius walks into the cafe, looking around. Enjolras waves him over, eager to hear the news.

“We're the only one left.” Marius says as he approaches Enjolras and Combeferre, his face crestfallen.

“What?”

“We're the only barricade left, Enjolras.” Marius repeats. “Everyone else, gone. Like it never happened.”

Enjolras blinks, his face falling into a deep frown.  His heart twists painfully as he realizes he is the leader of the last standing resistance. How were they to make any difference now? The people had the power, and his groups numbers were not enough.“They are scared. They have run like children.”

“They have reason to be scared, Enjolras. No one wishes to die at the hands of our own police force.” Combeferre says sharply.  
“They still live in fear. I would die for this cause, Combeferre.”   
“I know you would.” Combeferre says quietly. “But not everyone else is like you.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “What else, Marius?”

“The National Guard have stationed themselves again, ready for battle.” Marius shakes his head. “We can’t lose again.”  
“We won’t.” Enjolras says, clenching his hand into a fist.

“No, Enjolras. We _can’t_. I, too, am willing to give my all for this cause. I am with you every step of the way. But Enjolras, we are outnumbered. No one else should have to die if they are unwilling to give their life.” Marius’s childlike smile is long gone memory, replaced by a hard slash of frown. “No one more, please, Enjolras.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. He presses his hand to his mouth as he thinks.

“Enjolras.” A familiar deep voice calls to him. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have more news.” Grantaire stands before him, having shuffled his way over, wobbling a bit on his one uninjured leg. Marius is quick to wrap an arm around Grantaire’s waist, allowing him to lean on him for support, and Grantaire nods gratefully.

“Well, spit it out.” Enjolras says.

“I have word of a spy. I don’t think he is here yet, but I know the National Guard intends to send someone in, learn of our plans and report back.”

“How did you learn of this?”

“I know a lot of things, Enjolras.” Grantaire says, half attempting at a joke. “I do think it will happen soon.” He looks at Enjolras as if expecting an immediate battle plan. Enjolras supposes a day and a half ago, he would have given one.

“Combeferre.” Enjolras murmurs. “What shall we do?”

Combeferre shakes his head. “I think, my dear friend, the worst is here.”

“Let us not waste lives.” Enjolras says quietly.

Enjolras stands and walks into the center of the cafe floor, clearing his throat to gain attention. The quiet murmur of the cafe falls silent. Enjolras begins.

“The people who can fight back have not risen. Those who still live in fear have abandoned us. We stand alone at this barricade, but I will not keep you here. If you wish to leave, you may.” He doesn’t want to see a single man leave, but Enjolras knows it’s not his choice to make them stay. A few men shuffle and stand up, nodding solemnly at Enjolras before making their way out of the cafe, presumably to sneak away and head back home, where it was safe. A fair amount of men stay.

Especially Combeferre, who stands to take his place next to Enjolras. “Let’s make one more stand, shall we?”

The remaining men file out of the cafe, led by Enjolras. There’s fear now, fear that is strong and heady and palpable among his brothers. They sweat under the late morning sun, squinting at their opponents across the way as both parties ready their guns once more.

It’s deadly quiet. Enjolras climbs the barricade and peers out over the top, loaded gun in hand, ready to make the first strike. The Guardsmen stand at the ready, his men are all around him, but the battle feels more like a waiting game now.

Someone lands clumsily onto the broken furniture besides him. Enjolras pulls back from his perch to look down and find Grantaire, his brow furrowed as he tries to sit comfortably, carefully arranging himself to avoid his own wounds.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras demands. Grantaire has a hand gun and apparently nothing else.

“Everyone else is getting ready to fight, why can’t I?” Grantaire says, smiling wryly.

“You’re injured, you should be nowhere near here-”  
“Ho, there, men at the barricade!” A thunderous cry echoes in the street from across the way. The captain of the National Guard stands tall, his men paused behind him. “Listen to this. Surrender now, before more of your men needlessly die.”

Enjolras instantly is filled with rage and confidence. They will never surrender, not to the likes of such corrupted men as the National Guard. Beside him, Grantaire surveys the guardsmen from a small gap in the barricade.

“We have seen you have children in your ranks.” The captain calls again. “We do not wish to harm anyone who does not deserve it.” Children? What children?

“Gavroche.” Grantaire breathes. Enjolras glances down. “Gavroche and his friends, they’re here.”

“Shit.” Enjolras hisses. He had known they were here. He had seen Gavroche, but Gavroche never felt like a child, but instead a brother, who earned his place, and he was probably here now, somewhere hidden. What is he going to do? If Gavroche died or got harmed at Enjolras’s leading, that guilt would plague him just like Eponine’s does.

“Surrender now, and none of you shall face arrest.” The captain calls.

Grantaire stills. Enjolras looks at him again, his mind spinning. He hadn’t even thought about arrest. Grantaire looks back, returning his gaze with raised eyebrows that almost looked as if he was saying _well?_

It was his choice, wasn’t it. It always has been Enjolras’s choice. Surrender now and go free, or fight on and die or waste away as a convict. The answer was obvious.

He shut his eyes, briefly. He didn’t want to give up the fight. It wasn’t over, but to accept another loss so soon, so abruptly…

“This is the best deal we’re going to get, Enjolras.” Grantaire whispers. Enjolras takes a deep breath. As much as he hated it, Grantaire was right. Pushing off the barricade, Enjolras stands, climbing a bit further so he and his confident posture was visible to the guard. He looks back, briefly, seeing his men behind him; Marius’s face sad but resigned, seeing Combeferre face urging him to do the right thing.

He faces his enemy, staring them down, a dazzling red idol on top of the resistance. Enjolras raises his gun by the middle of the barrel, holding it out in front of him. He inhales sharply. “We accept your terms.” Enjolras calls back, letting the last of the fight ring clearly in his voice. The captain’s shoulders sag a bit in what Enjolras assumes is relief. “We are not done, the people will fight, but we will retreat.” Enjolras calls. The captain turns and says something to his men.

His men put their pointed guns down. Their formation breaks as they begin to pull back as well, leaving only a few guardsmen left, walking towards the barricade.

Enjolras climbs back down the barricade, sitting next to Grantaire again, watching his comrades climb down and put their guns in a pile.

At the base of the barricade, Combeferre is leading the men. He comforts them and helps them begin to drag the chairs back into the cafe. Enjolras is eternally thankful for Combeferre’s never ending goodness.

Enjolras suddenly feels bone achingly tired. He weakly sags against the furniture, bathed in yellow sunlight.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says suddenly. “Listen, you need to lose the vest.”

“Excuse me?”

“The vest. The red vest, Apollo.” Grantaire reaches out with his good arm. “Give it to me.”

“No, what are you on about?” Enjolras leans out of his reach.

“They promised not to arrest us, but have you known them to be truthful? They’ll arrest you, make an example of you because you are the recognizable symbol of this.” Grantaire insists. “I’m being serious, Enjolras.” He leans forward again and tugs at the red fabric. “You might be able to resist arrest on top of the barricade, but here on the street they outnumber you. You _will_ go to jail if they find you.” Grantaire looks so genuinely concerned and Enjolras can’t really find a reason to say no again.

“Fine.” He shrugs off the vest. Grantaire takes it from him and stuffs into the gaps in the furniture, hiding the blood red fabric from sight. “Take mine. Here.” With some difficulty, Grantaire manages to take off his own green vest around his injured arm and hand it to Enjolras. Enjolras is surprised to see the flag tied around his waist, the bold colors of the French flag, just like Combeferre was wearing; a proud claim to the country. He blinks owlishly at Grantaire and his outstretched arm.

“This isn’t necessary.” Enjolras says.

“Please.” Grantaire says, urging the vest closer. Enjolras sighs and tugs it on. Grantaire reaches up and snatches the string from Enjolras’s hair, untying the ponytail, letting the blond curls explode back into place around his face.

“Grantaire-” Enjolras starts, scandalized.

“Hush.” Grantaire hisses sharply, his eyes focused on something behind Enjolras. “Seriously, hush, don’t turn your face.” He presses his hand down on Enjolras’s shoulder, holding him in place like an anchor, encouraging him to turn closer into the barricade. “The inspector is coming. Inspector Javert.” Grantaire says quietly. Enjolras feels a trail of fear and worry crawl up his spine. “He sees your face, it's over.” Enjolras obeys and stays still.

“You, up there.” True to Grantaire's word, the inspectors commanding voice calls up to them. “What are you doing?” Grantaire leans away from Enjolras to call back; Enjolras hadn't realized how close he had been.

“This man is scared of the threat of gunshots. Merely comforting a brother. That's all.” Grantaire says lightly. Silence follows from the inspector. Grantaire doesn't react, so nothing bad is happening, Enjolras assumes.

“It will be alright, there will be no more gunshots.” Javert says, striking Enjolras by surprise. Comforting words from the inspector? “I will leave you two alone, unless you can tell me where the leader went. The one in red. I wish to speak with him.”

“No idea,” Grantaire says, the lie coming to him easily. He rubs his hand across Enjolras’s shoulder. “I'll be sure to let you know if I see him.”

“Thank you. Good man.” Javert’s steps are traceable by the clear click of each footstep, each one a spike in Enjolras’s consciousness.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire breathes, his hand tight on Enjolras’s shoulder. “See, I say important things sometimes. Let's get you out of here. You'll need to lie low for a few days.” Grantaire leans close again. “Sorry- sorry about your hair, I had to think quickly-”

“It's good you did.” Enjolras says, sitting up slightly and raising his head. “Honestly, the idea of arrest had slipped my mind, how could I have been so careless?” Enjolras shakes his head. “Let's get back inside the cafe and regroup.”

The pair carefully makes their way down and into the barricade, Enjolras reaching around Grantaire’s waist to help him limp back to safety, his hand fisted in the flag wrapped around Grantaire's hips.

“How did you even get up there in the first place? Combeferre will have your head if he sees you were climbing and walking.” Enjolras mutters.

Grantaire gives a weak laugh. “Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.” He says quietly. “Don’t mind me, I’m fine.” He assures, a bit louder. Enjolras glances over at him but Grantaire keeps his eyes firmly ahead.

“There you are! Enjolras, we’ve been looking for you.” Combeferre ushers them into the safety of the cafe. “Grantaire, go sit down, you terror.” Grantaire hobbles into a nearby chair that Marius drags over to the group. He collapses heavily into it.

“The green clothes were a good idea, that red vest would have gotten you in trouble, Enjolras.” Combeferre says. “Smart thinking.” Grantaire smirks, but says nothing to take claim of the idea as he carefully stretches out his injured leg in front of him.

“You should get out of here.” Marius says. “I’ll be leaving soon, but Enjolras, you need to lie low for the next few days.”

“It’s not that big of a problem. I’m not afraid of them.” Enjolras says.

“I am, you prick.” Combeferre snaps. “I’m worried for your safety, so you better get out of here.”

“I would offer- I would offer my house, but I can’t stay there either.” Marius says. “I’ll be in an apartment nearby.”

Enjolras’s brow furrows as he thinks. “I don’t know where I can go in such short notice.” A brief silence falls.

Grantaire clears his throat. “You can spend a few days at my house. Any guard or inspector here only knows me as a drunkard, so I doubt they’ll be at my door.” He says.

“Perfect!” Combeferre says quickly, clapping his hands. “That way I can check on your injuries again tomorrow. Hop to it, let’s go.”

“Don’t I get a say in the matter?” Enjolras asks, bewildered.

“No. Shut up.” Combeferre says. “I want you safe, Enjolras, and I know Grantaire will ensure it.” Again, with the Grantaire thing. Enjolras pouts. “Don’t make that face. This is serious, Enj, and I would house you myself, but you know I can’t either. I'll definitely be fending off the police from my front step.”

“Fine.” Enjolras crosses his arms. He honestly doesn’t mind the idea of going to spend a few days at Grantaire’s, just to lay low, but he hates that the choice was taken out of his hands.

“It’ll be alright.” Combeferre says, stepping closer to playfully tug on Enjolras’s loose hair. “It’s just until the policemen crawl back to their own place and out of here.”

“It’s fine.” Enjolras repeats. Combeferre grins in his face.

“Then grab the injured man who will be hosting you and let’s go.”

 

Grantaire lived close, Enjolras learns; a lot closer than he thought. His apartment was small and out of the way. Combeferre opened the door and walked in like he lived there too, and Enjolras considered maybe that Combeferre did spend enough time here to earn that right.

“I’m guessing you don’t have any bandages, do you Grantaire?” Combeferre says over his shoulder. Enjolras feels more than sees it when Grantaire shrugs.  
“I probably do, actually. I don’t know what I have.” He says, his breath a little short. Enjolras frowns, worrying a little.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks.

“Fine.” Grantaire says. He’s leaning heavily on Enjolras, favoring his healthy leg over using his injured one. He doesn’t believe Grantaire for a second. “My bedroom’s over there, to the left.” Grantaire says, gesturing carelessly. Enjolras nods. When they make it to his bedroom, Combeferre is elbow deep in one of Grantaire’s drawers, digging through. Enjolras carefully sets Grantaire down on the bed.

Grantaire exhales sharply, and flops backward into the messy blankets. “Holy fuck, revolution hurts.” He mutters to himself. “‘Ferre, am I allowed to have wine? Please?”

“I suppose, but only after I refresh your bandages.” Combeferre says.

“Thank _god._ ” Grantaire sighs. He throws an arm over his eyes. “Oh my god.” He whispers.

Enjolras shifts uncomfortably. He looks around the room, taking in the low lighting and bare walls. Honestly, Enjolras had no expectations for Grantaire’s living space, but for some reason this feels a little more homey and well kept than he thought, but he clears any assumptions from his mind. It’s not his place to judge Grantaire.

Especially as Grantaire whimpers as Comberre reaches for his wounded arm. Enjolras hesitates, wondering if he should leave or help. Once again, the choice is made for him as Combeferre looks up, glasses sliding down his nose, and raises his eyebrows at Enjolras.

“Could you get me a cloth and a bowl of water, please?” Combeferre asks. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Both should be in the kitchen.”

“And my wine. Also in the kitchen.” Grantaire calls, from under his arm.

Enjolras nods, indulging Grantaire this once on his drinking habits. When he returns with the items, he sets the bottle of wine and water dish on top of the dresser that Combeferre had been digging through, and wets the rag before handing it to Combeferre.

“Thank you.” He murmurs. Grantaire still lay on his back across the bed, face covered. “Come on, up. I need you to take your shirt off.” Grantaire sits up, muttering.

“Without buying me dinner first?” But Grantaire listens obediently. He takes the flag from his waist first, carefully laying it beside him on the bed, and then his white shirt, exposing his chest and pale shoulders so Combeferre can lean close and begin fiddling with the bandages. He unties it and sets the bloodied bandages aside, already closely focused.

“Looks good, Grantaire.” Combeferre says, pressing the wet cloth to his skin and washing the area.

“Are you just saying that to be nice?” Grantaire says. He flinches at the cloth meeting the edge of his small wound.

“Only a little.” Combeferre says. “Does it hurt when I press here?”

Enjolras realizes very quickly pain is not a look he likes on Grantaire's face. Grantaire's immediate “Yes, ow!” kind of makes his heart lurch. Combeferre only chuckles.

“Does it hurt like bullet wound pain or is it focused on one spot?” Combeferre asks as he gently presses his cloth again.

“Ow ow ow- bullet wound pain, Christ! What else?”

“Infection.” Combeferre says mildly. “Shrapnel, perhaps.” Grantaire’s face pinches tight with worry. “But don't worry, you just passed that test. You'll be fine as long as you don't decide to do anything reckless.” He keeps his voice light as he ties fresh wraps around Grantaire's arm. “Change your bandages often. Rest should do you good. Okay?”

“Okay.” Grantaire mumbles.

“You're doing great.” Combeferre says soothingly. “Let me just check this one too.” And so the process began again, Combeferre gently peeling away the bloody bandages from his thigh and wiping the area down.

“Those are the same pants as before, aren't they?” Enjolras comments.

Grantaire grunts at him. “Didn't feel like ruining another pair with my blood. Course they are.” Enjolras shrugs. Fair point.

“Can I have my wine now?” Grantaire asks quietly. Enjolras isn't sure who the question is directed at.

“Just a bit longer.” Combeferre says. “This hurt?”

“Of course it does.”

“Any spot hurt in particular?”

“No.”

With a final swipe of his rag, Combeferre sits back. He makes quick work of rewrapping the bandage snugly around Grantaire's thigh.

“Wine?” Grantaire tiredly asks again, laying back on his bed once more. “Please.”

Enjolras gets a nod of permission from Combeferre as he stands to put the bloody cloth into the dish of water and hands the bottle to Grantaire. Its unopened. Grantaire doesn't even try to open it, instead just cradling it to his bare chest as if he could glean comfort from it. He looks so tired, Enjolras thinks. He frowns.

“Enjolras, help me clean this up.” Combeferre says, picking up the bowl of red tinted water and heading out of Grantaire’s bedroom. Wordlessly, Enjolras follows, his footsteps quiet on the wooden floor.

Combeferre dumps the bloodied water on the ground just outside Grantaire’s front door. He closes the door, and sets the bowl on the counter. Crossing his arms, he turns to Enjolras. “You see now? You see how much he gives for you?”

“Combeferre, please.”

“No, you listen. You might be his guest for the next few days, but more importantly you are his caretaker. Those wounds are serious and you need to make sure he’s changing his bandages. Do you understand?”  
“Yes.” Enjolras says crossly. He was going to do that anyway.

Combeferre sighs, dropping his aggressive stance and pulling Enjolras into a tight hug. Enjolras grips him back, letting his head rest against his friend’s shoulder. “Please be patient. Be safe, and take care of Grantaire. Take care of yourself. I’ll drop by as soon as I can.” Enjolras nods, suddenly feeling very overwhelmed with the events of the last few days. Ever the all knowing, Combeferre quietly hums. “Don’t beat yourself up, okay?”

“Take care.” Enjolras says, pulling back. He offers Combeferre a smile, and then his friend is gone.

Enjolras takes a moment to himself in the empty room to gather his thoughts. It would be okay. What’s done is done. Enjolras shakes his head and steps back into the bedroom, only to find Grantaire exactly as he’d left him, flat on his back and a bottle of wine clutched in his arms. Except, amazingly, Grantaire’s closed eyes and even breathing give away that he’s asleep, wine still untouched and still half naked. Enjolras rolls his eyes. It's only a little amusing. Still, that's no way to sleep, even a few hours before proper night time. Enjolras reaches out and carefully tugs the wine bottle from Grantaire’s arms, setting it on the dresser again. On second thought, he takes the flag too, carefully folding it and setting it next to the wine. He looks at Grantaire.

When he's asleep he seems peaceful. Obviously, he's relaxed, but that stern expression Grantaire always wears tends to age him, putting a furrow in his brow and bags under his eyes. He looks younger like this, showing his true age. After all, Enjolras was only a year younger than Grantaire, maybe less, and neither of them were very old at all.

Enjolras wonders why Grantaire seems to carry the world on his back.

Shaking his head, he snaps out of his reverie. That's awkward, standing there while a man lays half naked on the bed.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says quietly. He shakes Grantaire a little by his good arm. “Grantaire. You should get into bed properly.” He gently shakes his shoulder again and Grantaire stirs, his relaxed face quickly fading into his usual disgruntled self.

“Ngh?” Grantaire mumbles.

“If you want to go to bed, you should do it properly.” Enjolras says. “Come on, sit up and we can get you in some sleeping clothes.”

“Can't.” Grantaire sleepily says.

“You can't?”

“The bandage is around my pant leg.” Grantaire says. He slowly manages to sit up, blinking blearily. “I don't need to sleep. It's fine.” He rubs sleepily at his eye.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras scolds lightly. “That's fine, the pants can stay, but at least get into bed.”

Grantaire squints up at him through his eyelashes, considering his options. Enjolras just stares back.

“Come on.” Enjolras says. “Least I can do is help you into bed.”Grantaire's eyes are blue, Enjolras realizes, a bright blue in a beautiful contrast to his dark hair.

“Okay.” Grantaire says, dropping his gaze. Enjolras helps him get under the sheets properly, helping Grantaire lay on his back in order not to aggravate his wounds and arranging the sheets nicely.

“Thank you.” Enjolras says suddenly, sitting down on the bed, his voice quiet.

“For what?” Grantaire asks, his eyes already closed and his voice sleepy. His hair spreads in loose curls against the pillow.

“Everything.” Enjolras says. He nervously smooths out the sheets with his hands. “Just… thanks.” Grantaire’s eyes open and he reaches out with his hand and presses his palm to Enjolras’s cheek. His skin is almost startlingly warm and Enjolras resists the urge to tip his head into Grantaire’s hold. “I thought that you don’t believe in the revolution. I can’t say I expected you to be at the barricades every time we fought.”  
“I don’t believe in the revolution. You know that.” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “I believe in you and your ability more than anything else. I believe in your ability to push forward until something shifts in your favor or breaks- and that's why I stayed. I knew you would reach a breaking point.” Grantaire presses his palm to Enjolras’s cheek a bit more firmly. “You can’t lead a revolution if you pass that breaking point.”

It all made sense, right then. The gears slid into place with a loud thunk in Enjolras’s mind. Combeferre was right this whole time, that Grantaire wasn’t _saving_ Enjolras for his own sense of heroism or right to be at the barricades, he was just making sure Enjolras would still be able to pursue what he believed in- and Grantaire wanted to protect that passion. Because Grantaire believed in _him_. Enjolras sighs and brings up his own hand to cover Grantaire’s. He shuts his eyes tight.

He could see in his mind's eye an ending where Grantaire had stayed away from the battles. One where Enjolras _had_ pushed too far and lost again, and had taken the shots, had died for his cause like he knew he would. Perhaps Grantaire would die with him, knowing that the man he believed in had nothing left.

That ending was far less favorable than this one. This ending- the one with the man who didn't believe in anything except Enjolras gently pressing his hand to Enjolras’s cheek as he fought away sleep- this was the one Enjolras was glad he managed to save.

“Go to sleep, Grantaire.” Enjolras says, his voice soft and rough with emotion.

“Yes sir.” Grantaire closes his eyes. Enjolras lets his hand slide away from his face and rest on the bed, but didn't take his hands away from Grantaire's. He sits there, clutching Grantaire's warm hand, until Grantaire is deeply asleep, and maybe even a little after that.


End file.
